Page 45 of The Love Thief
“I hear you will be with us for a bit, working with Maya on the new café. I’m happy you are finding value in this class. If there is anything else that I can provide for you, please feel free to ask me.” She said this in a kind voice that felt like a warm grandmotherly hug.
“Well, actually, there is something I’d like to learn from you. I’d like to know more about sukha. Do you think I could take you to tea and drive you crazy with a bunch of newbie questions?” I asked hopefully.
“Thank you, Holly, what a brilliant idea! I would love that. The hotel does a proper British high tea service in the Atrium beginning at 4 p.m. Should we meet there and indulge in some scones, strawberries with clotted cream, and the world’s most delicious lemon tarts?”
After yoga, I took a quick shower and headed to Maya’s office for a series of meetings, discussing everything from the color and fabric of the serving staff uniforms to checking out images of several classic Wurlitzer jukeboxes for sale on eBay.
We were trying to decide between one big jukebox near the dance floor or several small coin-operated ones that we would place at each booth.
Ultimately, we decided on the one large one that lit up in a multicolored wonder of primary colors and was filled with the hit tunes of the sixties.
One of the things I loved about working with Maya was that she had someone for every aspect of our enterprise, from architects, carpenters, designers, and printers to cooks, servers, and a team of concierges who knew how to procure almost anything we asked for.
Whatever we dreamed up for Moondoggie’s, Maya had an employee on speed dial who could make it all happen.
Maya picked up the phone on her desk, punched in a few numbers, and told “Rohan” that she had just emailed him the photo and specs of the jukebox she needed with a few suggested delivery dates.
All I heard her say was, “Yes, yes, that is all, thank you.” Voila.
Done. From what I had observed so far, no one ever said no to Maya, and things mostly seemed to go her way.
I found it comforting to be hanging out in her privileged bubble.
“The sixties-era surfboard was actually known as a longboard about ten feet in length. It was placed in a forward motion on a small wave,” I explained to Maya’s branding and social media team.
We were gathered around a shiny white oblong-shaped conference table in the conference room next to Maya’s office.
The task at hand was the designing of a Moondoggie’s billboard to plaster around Delhi as part of a teaser campaign.
I had a clear vision for it. The feel and colors of the photo-realistic illustration would evoke a mid-sixties vibe with a surfer who looked a bit like Frankie Avalon with an Annette Funicello type in a red polka-dot swimsuit on his shoulders confidently riding the waves in a classic tandem surfing pose.
The headline would be simple: Meet Us at Moondoggie’s!
I had collected a series of old movie posters from the era to demonstrate to the team members the style and tone I was going for.
“For the two months leading up to opening day, we want this image everywhere: billboards, social media, on fences, the sides of buildings and buses, wherever we can place it. We want to create intrigue and have people guessing and asking ‘Just what in the world is this Moondoggie’s?’” I explained.
I took a sip of sparkling water and waited for a response.
The small team, mouths closed, all looked directly at Varun, their young hipster leader.
Dressed in the skinniest bright red pants with a green-and-red Gucci Hawaiian-style floral shirt, Varun walked over to the young woman illustrator who had done the initial attempt at a surfer on a wave.
He looked at her sketch page as he slowly stroked his Vandyke goatee.
He then politely asked her if he could take over the drawing.
She nodded and offered him her seat. Varun opened a box of stubby chubby colored pencils and pulled out two shades of blue, a mustard color, a red, a green, a dark brown, and, with the speed of Edward Scissorhands, he began working.
In under two minutes, he had created a rough outline drawing of the image that was in my head.
I studied Varun’s illustration, which appeared a bit too contemporary for my taste. I suggested he go for the more retro style of the movie posters I had shown them, explaining that we wanted to create an authentic California diner with a sixties vibe.
Nodding his head enthusiastically, he agreed and promised us that his team would have several comps for us to see in a few days and would size them to fit billboards, use as posters, and on social media.
They were also going to get started on a website simply called Moondoggie, where we would eventually sell branded items, including beach towels, caps, and T-shirts.
Maya quietly beamed as she observed the camaraderie of the creative team.
Watching her vision manifest was deeply satisfying for both of us.
When Maya and I returned to the hotel, she had a meeting with her father to review some budget items unrelated to Moondoggie’s.
I had a few hours of kitchen design to figure out with the construction project manager until my 4 P.M. high tea date with Ritaji.
The Atrium had become one of my favorite places in the hotel that was quickly beginning to feel like home.
Its floors were covered in deep, rich Mogul-designed carpets, the walls were carved antique chestnut, and the ceiling was clear-paned glass, allowing sunlight to flood the rectangle-shaped room.
I spotted Ritaji sitting in the right back corner and told the sari-clad hostess I’d be happy to seat myself.
With a big smile, Ritaji waved to me. Dressed in a long silk tunic and loose trousers, known as a shalwar kameez, she embraced me lightly and leaned in to kiss me on both cheeks.
The table was set with beautiful, Victorian gold-trimmed porcelain crockery painted with delicate flowers.
As she poured tea into my dainty cup, she said, “Holly, what a brilliant idea this is. I’ve ordered us a full three-tier stand of goodies, and we are starting with my favorite rose tea, which, by the way, is made with real rose petals. ”
I had spent my childhood playing with my dollhouse, imagining tea parties just like this, but I realized this was my first real “tea party.” My afternoon tea parties were often just me with my dolls and plastic tea set, pretending to be fancy and regal.
I felt unexpected tears forming in the corners of my eyes as a wave of nostalgia washed over me.
I quickly moved my eyes to look up to the ceiling, a brain hack I had learned to stop myself from crying, and I managed to prevent my voice from cracking as I smiled brightly and thanked Ritaji for making the time to meet with me.
I put on a brave face, something I had done all my life to make sure no one else around me felt uncomfortable.
But my efforts were in vain because Ritaji noticed right away.
“Holly, where are you right now? How can I help you?” Ritaji asked quietly.
I took a sip of tea, reached for a small smoked salmon and cucumber sandwich, and gave her a wistful shrug.
“The last couple of months have been the most painful and confusing time of my life,” I said, not knowing really where to begin.
“And then I went to Rishikesh and had a series of unexplainable, mystical experiences that have been wonderful and healing, but I don’t trust that the feeling will last once I leave India.
Like the magic will one day wear off. Does that make sense? ”
I took a bite of the crustless sandwich.
“Tell me more. Tell me everything. Tell me whatever you feel comfortable sharing,” Ritaji encouraged.
I condensed a lifetime, mostly the last nine months of my life, into a stream-of-consciousness TMI recap of dreaming of the happily-ever-after life, the meeting of Prince Charming under the fireworks-filled sky, the proposal, Budapest, Hawaii, the discovery of his and Carly’s betrayal and the truth of who he really was.
I shared the near-death car accident, the FBI, going to Rishikesh, learning from Deepak and Sadhviji, meeting Maya, the Nadi reading, and ended with my experience in the Ganga River.
My chest heaved as I recounted the story to my new friend.
Ritaji refilled my teacup. I sliced a scone and took a generous helping of fig jam.
Before Ritaji could speak, I recounted my conversation with Deepak about what happiness was and wasn’t, and what santosha was.
I noted how this was helping me understand how to be in life, how to have a life that didn’t look like the life I had planned, and learning to trust that somehow my life would be great anyway.
“At the end of the last class, when you spoke about sukha, I wanted to understand more about what it is, and how to get it. I mean, is sukha the same or different from santosha?” I asked.
All these new concepts swirled in my mind.
It was hard to keep them all straight. I hoped my new friend could help me place them in a context I could understand.
“For me, sukha is about happiness, pleasure, and ease,” Ritaji began.
She radiated a calm that drew me in like the waning tide on an ocean shoreline.
For a moment, I thought I saw a soft halo of white light encompassing her entire head down to her shoulders.
I blinked hard, thinking I might be hallucinating.
What is in this tea? I thought. India had certainly gotten under my skin.
I sat up straighter, forcing myself to focus as she continued.
“Santosha is a powerful practice to bring your full attention into the moment in a way that brings clarity, contentment, and peace. Both sukha and santosha are equally wonderful states of being to strive for,” Ritaji shared. “Your friend Deepak is a very wise teacher.”
She paused to let her words sink in. A warm feeling washed over me as I thought about Deepak. Lifting my teacup, I allowed myself to feel an overwhelming wave of love wrapping me like a cozy sweater on a cool autumn morning.
“Holly, how are you feeling right now?” she asked.
“I feel light. Weightless. I feel kind of like my moment with Ma Ganga but different. I also feel happy.” I paused, then looked at my plate.
“Must be the scones,” I quipped, once again eyeing my teacup to detect any mysterious contents that might have magically slipped in there.
“Yes, the scones do add sweetness to our lives. That is another indicator of sukha. Sweetness, the sweetness of life, and it is a bit different from santosha. With santosha, we are in a place of equanimity, a place of balance between the mind and body and bliss. Holly, you can have both sukha and santosha,” she said as she handed me an elegant lemon tart wrapped in gold foil.
I was truly beginning to believe it. Santosha was a place of bliss. I prayed I could hold on to it or at least remember what it felt like when life would inevitably spin off the rails again. But this time, I would be more prepared. Of that, I was certain.